Oh, goodness. I cringe now in memory
of the way I'd stamp my foot and toss my head and slam the door
, trying to get Mum to listen to me.
I'm an adult, Mums! Damnit, trust me?
It'd be so nice to really believe that, to really think I know what I want and what this life's all about. Because I sure as hell don't think that my mother knows.
Being an adult isn't about knowing what's going to happen, although I wish it was. Being an adult isn't about knowing what to do. (God, someone, tell me what to do here?) Being an adult is only only, (as far as I know) about being responsible for the decisions I make.
I'm an adult, damnit! Wasn't this the time when I'd know everything, and do anything, and fear nothing? Isn't this when it's supposed to happen?
I don't like making the rules as I go. I don't like testing limits as I teeter near an invisible line. I don't like being responsible.
So I'm an adult, eh? Where's the beer? Where're my smokes?